


The Adventures of J, the (not so) Friendly Ghost: Dissonance

by RationalNumber



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst and Drama, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28405239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RationalNumber/pseuds/RationalNumber
Summary: A workaholic, a big dreamer, a perfectionist, a playboy, and a century-old spirit lives in the same abode. What happens then?
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	1. Prologue

My _amiga_ Shirley Bassey once sung: “This is my life! Today, tomorrow, love will come find me.”

Such a wonderful song, right? It speaks of being broken down and building yourself back up, individuality and independence or something... All lies if you ask me.

You heard me. That song is nothing but lies, lies, lies. _Liza Minelli_ —Lies.

Did I use that term right? I happen to hear it from this TV show about drag queens back when I--.

Oh.

Where are my manners? I am greatly sorry.

My name is J. No extensions of the sort, its not a short term for Josephine (eugh), nor Jasmine (which is kind of a pretty name)— just J.

Anyways, you’ll understand my beef with Shirley Bassey soon enough, but I’ve got much important and juicy _chismis_ to talk to you about. Stories and gossips of love, heartbreak, midlife-crisis, and the many, many, things you’d like to hear about from other people but absolutely despise it when it happens to you.

Did I have your attention? What? You’re asking me why _you_ should listen to my stories?

Oh _langga,_ you have no idea what you’re missing if you don’t!

Well, let me just get to the point. No more asking questions till the end of the orientation, _sabot_?

Good.

Now let me tell you my backstory first. Cause ya’ know, you don’t have much of a choice but to listen.

I’m dead. Like, not figuratively or metaphorically. I’m dead. Flat-line, embalmed, six-feet deep in the ground (my beautiful body at least), _tegi, sumakabilang buhay—_ dead.

However, my spirit somewhat remained here, for reasons that I don’t know. One day I just died of old age and the next day I woke up on my old house. Only this time I wasn’t that old hag I used to be. I was back on my prime! Death had given me the best makeover no dermatologist could give! Thick ass, voluptuous tits, hourglass figure, Marilyn Monroe locks… My beauty was incomparable, godlike even! Except, no one could really see it, not even my drop-dead gorgeous tenants (see what I did there?).

Oh, speaking of which. They’re the stars of this story, I’m just your beautiful narrator. It’s a steal for you if you ask me.

First on the list, we have Hinata Shoyo. A good kid really, typical Asian stature, weird orange hair (reminds me of tangerines, they’re really good for exfoliating skin), and a workaholic. He takes pride in his profession as a PE teacher, way too much if you ask me. I admire his persistence, but he never really gets time for himself. Caught him sleeping on the dinner table multiple times, poor guy.

Our next bachelor is—just a sec, I need to clear my throat for this—Bokuto Kotaro! _AAAAAAAH!_ Don’t tell him this, but I really have a fat crush for this six-foot-tall ball of energy! He has the dreamiest golden eyes, arms and thighs fat with muscles (don’t get me started on his abs, and don’t ask how I found out), and beat this--- he’s an aspiring Doctor! D-O-C-T-O-R. The ultimate career for Asians, the crème of the… crop? Salad? Ah, you get my point.

Except… He has a boyfriend. I know ladies, what a bummer right? But I don’t mind at all, I’ve learned on my hundred years of existence that whoever people love is none of our businesses. I just wish some of these living folks understand it as well.

But anyways, he’s still my crush. 

This next one… _sigh_. God, these last two people are a headache to even mention. The mere passing of their name is enough to evoke pain to my already dead brain.

Tall. Blonde. Handsome. A total asshole. That’s Atsumu Miya. The guy has a talent for singing, trust me. The first time I heard his voice, I almost swooned and fell through the floor. He’s got talent in hitting notes and getting on other people’s nerves, Sakusa Kiyoomi’s specifically.

Kiyoomi is well… I think he’s cool. Works as a music producer, pays rent on time, keeps things clean all the time, plus he always smells good. Here’s the catch though, he always, ALWAYS hooks up with a man every Friday night. He’s a playboy, a casanova if you’re fancy, _pakboy_ if you’re a local and got a thick accent, _adarit_ if your Bisaya is good. The man is devastatingly handsome and a collector of broken hearts. I’d advise you all to get three meters away from him, but I doubt if you could. His looks are magnetic.

Up next is… Oh, there’s no one left. I guess let’s get to the story then. Grab your popcorn ladies, gents, and non-binary folks, cause this is going to be one hell of a ride!


	2. The Drunk Bachelors

“ _KINSA NAMAN SAD WA NANGHUGAS UG PLATO_?!”

Sakusa’s screaming jolted me awake from the comforts of the living room sofa. I sighed. Whoever didn’t wash the dishes was about to get an earful from Mr. Clean Freak, Sakusa Kiyoomi again.

I hovered past the furniture, my lower body disappearing as I passed through the kitchen table, reattaching when I finally got on the sink.

Good morning to you as well.

I leaned over the sink, the fuming red Kiyoomi standing on my side, fists clenched on the edge of the counter, nostrils flared, and eyes darker than the black shirt he sported. Ah… Someone is about to get killed today.

I saw why Kiyoomi was _extra mad_ over the sight of today’s unwashed dishes. The plastic containers were stained with red oil, and reeked of rotten dough, probably noodles, judging from the weird moldy worm that rested on the edge, as if crying for help. I think I might have heard it scream a little.

Based on my hundred-year wisdom, I deduced that it might have been ramen noodles, and only one person liked to eat red hot spicy noodles in this household.

But I’ll hold off the vital information for now. Ya’ know, for excitement.

Shoyo’s tangerine hair popped into the kitchen, bags of gray resting under his eyes. I wonder what time he slept last night. The last time I checked on him, he was busy facing his laptop and typing numbers and all. Teacher stuff, I wouldn’t know, I was a real-estate broker back in the day. Plus, I hated kids.

The orange-head yawned, “What’s going on, Omi?”

Sakusa’s head snapped towards the half-asleep Shoyo, eyes still holding the same fury and intensity from earlier. “Who. Didn’t. Wash. The. Plates?”

Shoyo blinked twice, slid his hand under his pyjamas and scratched his stomach twice before he spoke, “Not me, Boks and I had dinner together. _Siya nanghugas.”_

My heard hummed in excitement upon the mention of my crush’s name, of course Kotaro would wash the dishes, he’s responsible, kind, and ho—

My train of thoughts stopped in its tracks when I heard Bokuto’s bedroom door swing open. I instantly flew half across the room to take a sip of my own _personal_ morning coffee.

Ah, there he was. Locks of gray and black drooped down, golden eyes beaming against the morning sun, strong, unclothed arms (thank the heavens for tank tops) and if you do as much as look down… _OH!_ What a treasure you will find nestled under the thin cloth of his boxer shorts.

Anyways, back to the story. 

Bokuto wobbled his way towards the kitchen, my astral arms wrapped around his broad shoulders (Don’t worry, I’m lighter than feather). Shoyo had managed to make coffee for four people, taking a sip of his own as he sat down on one of the stools to reboot his brain.

“Omi, _saba man._ What’s going on? It’s still early in the morning.” Kotaro asked as he took a seat.

Yes dear, tell this hot-headed raven on how noisy he is so early in the morning.

Shoyo handed him one of the steaming cups of coffee, “It’s the dishes. Already told him that it wasn’t us though.”

I let go of my darling’s shoulders and took a seat on the kitchen counter, next to Sakusa who was leaning his weight on the slab of marble.

“So, it’s him again?” Sakusa’s voice was accusing, his eyes staring intently at the only door whose owner remained inside, sleeping.

I gulped, swallowing non-existent spit (we don’t have any fluids left, the embalmer took them), I had an inkling of what was about to happen. Not good, not good at all.

Shoyo seemed to have picked up the bloodlust Sakusa was emanating. Kotaro? Well, let’s just say he lacks the emotional intelligence to perceive these kinds of stuff. A _himbo_ , like what youngsters today say. Hot, but incredibly stupid in one way or another.

“Sakusa, spare him the sermon. Let’s just have our morning coffee in peace.” Shoyo appeased, handing Sakusa a cup of coffee. Good thinking, Shoyo.

Sakusa accepted the cup begrudgingly, yelping when he got splashed by the hot liquid.

“Spare him? _Dios ko,_ he doesn’t clean at all!” He paused to take a sip before he resumed his grousing, “Last time, who had to keep his clothes from getting soaked by the rain?”

Kotaro put down his cup, “You did.”

“Who had to clean his room when the landlord came for a visit?”

Shoyo grimaced, “You did.”

Sakusa took a deep breath, trying to bring his hand tremors to mellow down, “ _Ug kinsa, kinsa ang gamhanang kamot na nikuskos sa inidoro pagkahuman niyag suka, kay nahubog siya.”_

_ He did _ .

I winced as I remembered how Sakusa scrubbed the chyme puree that Atsumu retched on the poor toilet bowl. It was that day when I realized that pizza, stomach acid, and alcohol did not smell good as a mixture. It took a good convincing and appeasing from Bokuto and Shoyo not to kill the wasted Atsumu that had slept like a baby in the couch—my couch—completely oblivious to the disaster he caused.

Was Sakusa’s anger justified? Yes. Was murder the best option to get Atsumu’s act straight? If we’re talking about rigor mortis, then yes. 

“Just try and be calm, okay?” Shoyo sighed as he put down his coffee, his fingers fumbling restlessly.

Kotaro stood up from his seat, “No throwing stuffs as well.” He said as he retreated to his bedroom, obviously avoiding the impending war.

Me? I just sat there. This was pretty normal in this household, plus, I’m no newbie to fights between tenants. Once upon a time, there was a family who lived here before these guys, every time the younglings fought, their mom would yell: “ _Ara’y kutsilyo! Pag-pinatyanay mo!”_ Which roughly translates to: “Here! Grab some knives and kill each other!” Perfect way to calm hormonal teens, proven and tested for multiple generations. #AsianParenting

I would’ve given these two knives a long time ago—if I could grab ‘em. But I highly doubt Sakusa had the restraint to not murder Atsumu. Even I would at least want to hit the back of his head with the opposite side of a butcher knife. The guy’s such a dick, his words were as stenchy as piss—much like the color of his own hair.

So, I sat back as Sakusa marched towards Atsumu’s bedroom, his black curls bouncing ominously as his steps landed with a heavy thud. Shoyo’s lips were pressed into a thin line, as if saying _Yep, this is going to be chaotic._

The three knocks reverberated across the apartment like a prelude to an execution.

“Atsumu.” Sakusa’s voice was an octave lower.

Shuffling came inside the white coated wooden door, some expletives piercing through the wood as the sound of footsteps went on a crescendo.

Shoyo’s hands were pressed together in prayer.

I smirked.

The door creaked open, revealing a half-naked Atsumu. Of course, my eyes went straight to the strong mounds of muscle resting on his abdomen (priorities), travelling up to see his displeased face.

“What?” Atsumu spitted out.

Shoyo winced; I snickered.

Sakusa stepped on the side as he pointed towards me, more like through me, to the pile of dishes behind my astral body.

“Why didn’t you wash the plates?” Sakusa said with a smile.

Atsumu raised a brow, “Because I was sleepy? Thanks for waking me up though. I have an important recording to go to. I’ll wash it later.” Atsumu replied as he turned back to the comforts of his bedroom until Sakusa stopped him by a grip to the elbow.

_ Any second now. _

“Get your hands off me.”

_ 5 _

“No.”

_ 4 _

“I said, get your hands off me.”

_ 3 _

“Then clean the damned dishes Atsumu. _Di ka senyorito”_

_ Yikes, he just called him senyorito—another way of telling someone he’s lazy. Anyways, 2. _

“I need to prepare for my recording Kiyoomi. Let. Me. Go.”

_ 1 _

“I don’t give a flying fuck you lazy asshole. I’m sick of your excuses. Clean the damned dishes or else!” Sakusa yelled.

Atsumu’s eyes flickered towards Kiyoomi, mirroring the same fury the latter has.

“Kiyoomi… _Mama tika?”_

Sakusa’s face turned into a scowl. Apparently being asked if he was Atsumu’s mother was something he did not appreciate.

“No, but you live with three people, so maybe learn to clean after yourself. For a man who prides himself on being a public figure, you sure live like shit.” Sakusa seethed, as he let go of Atsumu with a shove, pivoting back to the direction of his room, shutting the door with a slam when he reached it.

Bokuto’s door creaked open, and he emerged donning his white polo and slacks uniform, the sleeves a perfect fit for his arms—and the ass, _yum_.

“Just wash the dishes Atsumu, you know how Omi doesn’t like dirty things, especially the kitchen.”

Atsumu huffed as he begrudgingly marched towards the sink.

Not wanting the asshole’s presence as well, I hovered towards Kiyoomi’s room, passing through his door effortlessly.

Now before you lecture me about privacy and personal space, let me remind you: I’m a ghost, a dead person. I don’t do harm towards my tenants, nor use my spiritual capabilities to do something lewd to them—except that one time I _accidentally_ passed through the bathroom door while Bokuto took a shower. What? The wind blew at my skinny body too hard. I couldn’t help it.

I found the raven lying in his bed, rummaging through a small notebook which upon closer inspection, turned out to be his bank passbook. He always does this when he’s stressed. He locks himself in his room, and stares at his passbook as if the numbers are going to bring him some sort of enlightenment. I haven’t got to the bottom as to why he does this, but as far as human logic goes, staring at money is a good therapy to calm yourself down.

“Just a few more…” He says to himself (obviously), as his fingers glided through a page.

I hovered a bit closer to see the writings and screamed when I saw the amount of money he had.

Well, if I were to describe it, I think it would be enough to buy at least thirty-seven units of those _iphones_ teens nowadays are so crazy about. Weird kids really, they could just settle for a cheaper one that does the same shit and invest the money somewhere worthwhile, but eh, guess capitalism does its job well.

To what on earth Sakusa Kiyoomi wanted to buy? I had no idea. I flew through the room next door—Atsumu’s.

Firstly, his room was a total mess. Crumpled paper was splayed all over the floor along with heaps of unwashed clothes. It’s a surprise that he could still manage to sleep on such a place, even my coffin smelled better than his room.

The blonde’s body was dripping wet, towel slung on his shoulders as he walked across his room to reach his closet as if he were playing minesweeper. He rummaged through his closet which looked more like a monster’s intestine with the ribbons of unfolded clothing chucked in random _arrangements_. He managed to fish denim jeans and a dress shirt that looked more like a blouse. 

The phone rang as he zipped his pants, the name _Manager_ flashing on his phone screen.

I scooted closer as he pressed the device on his ears.

“Yes manager?”

“Atsumu, are you on your way now?” A man’s voice spoke from the other line.

Atsumu started to put his socks on, “Yeah, _pasakay na.”_

Liar. Since when was getting dressed an equivalent to boarding transport vehicles?

“You should hurry, the producers are about to arrive.”

“Sure, sure.” He said, slipping one covered foot to his sneakers.

“Please Atsumu, best behavior.” The other man said, his voice immediately being replaced by the dial tone as he dropped the call.

Could Atsumu reach his recording studio at time? Maybe. Will he behave appropriately? Doubts. The kid had a knack on showing the worst parts of him in the worst of times. The times he came home drunk because of project rejections had been too many to count. Pretty soon the number of disapprovals he received would be greater than my age.

The door creaked open to reveal Shoyo, the smell of eggs and _bulad—_ salted dried fish—wafted inside of Atsumu’s room. 

“Breakfast is ready.”

Atsumu grabbed his phone and wallet, “Sorry Sho, gotta scram early. Thanks though.”

Shoyo nodded and closed the door; I left the room and followed him.

Among the four guys, Shoyo and Sakusa were the ones who knew most of the household chores. Shoyo was an expert on the kitchen while Sakusa for the cleaning. Kotaro would help here and there, but I wouldn’t trust him to man the stove again after he nearly burnt the house when he tried to boil water. Imagine me being dead and homeless… Depressing.

On the table was a sprawl of breakfast food. Three empty plates were placed around a heaping bowl of white rice, a platter of sunny side up eggs and dried fish. I thought I heard my stomach rumble before the delectable sight.

Kotaro had already been seated, while Shoyo walked into the kitchen with a calmer Sakusa.

Atsumu’s door swung open, the blonde rushing through the door with a quick goodbye.

Shoyo and Sakusa took their own seats and the three started scooping food into their own plates.

“How’s med school Kotaro?” Sakusa asked.

Kotaro, who had his mouth full, chewed and swallowed before he gave his answer, “It’s my last year already. So, I might not go home that often since I’ll be spending majority of my time in the hospital.” He answered glumly.

I sighed. I wish I could accompany Kotaro in his shifts, but there are just too many spirits to fend off in the hospital! Plus, I can’t last long outside without possessing an object, as much as I would love to rest on his stethoscope, I despise contact with sickly people. 

“That’s med school for you.” Shoyo commented.

Kotaro pointed his spoon at Shoyo, “How about you Sho? Isn’t your sister going to college soon?”

Shoyo let out something between a groan and a sigh, “Tell me about it.”

“Aren’t you prepared financially? You’ve been working for about five years now.” Sakusa asked as he brought his spoon inside his mouth.

Shoyo had a doubting expression on his face, his spoon tapping the mound of rice, slowly flattening it. “I have some saved, but It’s not going to last long if she doesn’t manage to at least get a scholarship, considering she wants to study in a private university.”

Ah, education. I remember back in my day; the concept of educated women was something entirely new to society. The men were scared shitless over the concept of women who knew their worth, who would resist the patriarchal norms of society. They were scared of women realizing they didn’t need a man to realize their fullest potential. Though the prejudice is slowly melting like the ice caps (morbid simile, I know), the fact that education is still privatized up till this day is nothing but disappointing.

“How about you Sakusa?” Shoyo asked, obviously trying to divert the conversation.

“Me? What about me?”

Kotaro chuckled, “We’ve seen you look at your passbook at random times of the day. Do you have something you wanted to buy?”

Now this had my attention. 

Sakusa paused, his lenses looking up the white ceiling, lips pressed in concentration.

“I think I want to buy a house.”Sakusa confesses.

Now the outrageous amount makes sense.

“You think? You’re not sure?” Shoyo pressed.

Sakusa shook his head, “Yeah. I just kind of want something permanent.”

The three of us shot a brow in confusion, “Like a tattoo?” Kotaro suggested.

“I really don’t know. I’m still figuring it out.” Sakusa replied with a chuckle.

The two seemed to get the message of his awkward laugh, if not, surely the awkward scratches on the back of his head made them drop the topic.

Suddenly I missed the feeling of having a life-crisis. The foreboding feeling of not knowing what next step to take after you’ve achieved what you thought was your biggest milestone, the feeling of loss and the accompanying existential crisis… Ah, to be young and alive.

When the trio finished their breakfast, it was time for them to go to their jobs. As their resident spirit, I accompanied them to the front door—also Kotaro’s perfume smelled particularly nice today—and bid them goodbye.

Finally, I had the house to myself.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love my tenants. They keep the house clean, let me watch TV shows with them, plus the drama they provide is something out of a movie! However, I don’t really have time to fly around freely when there’s people that I can collide into. I don’t appreciate the view their body cavities give me. One time I passed through a smoker’s body, his lungs looked like grilled chicken, minus the pleasant smell.

So, having a few moments of uninterrupted flying keeps my astral body and mind in harmony.

I just didn’t expect that it would be so short—just about fifteen minutes to be exact.

The front door opened to unfold a tired looking Sakusa. His black shirt curved like a banana as he slouched, the metal chains dangling on his ripped jeans jingled faintly as he marched to the living room, a white cellophane in tow.

I wondered what got his mood sombre.

I watched him collapse on the couch as he threw his phone on the table with a clatter. I hovered towards him carefully, as if he could see or hear me, and looked at the text displayed on his phone.

_ Sorry Omi, your demo wasn’t chosen. _

Ah, now I see. 

Kiyoomi fished a bottle of liquor from the plastic—today’s choice was a vodka mix—held the cover against the edge of the table single-handedly, and hammered it forcefully with his other hand, the bottle cap detaching with a pop.

I sat beside the sulking Kiyoomi as he brought the drink to his lips, the red liquid sloshing in the bottle as he consumed it.

These are times where I wish I could talk to my tenants you know? Maybe leave a little scribble on a piece of paper, make them go on an easter egg hunt around the house, fling them a thousand feet up the air and finally, take over their bod—just kidding; A Ouija board would be nice though, just to communicate with them, make them feel less lonely, minus the paranormal activity.

Kiyoomi drank for a good couple of hours, went out to buy even more liquor when he ran out, but by the time he had returned, Atsumu was already home as well. The blonde came home with the same dejected look as Kiyoomi, also bearing a white plastic with—surprise—alcohol in it.

“You didn’t get the deal?” Kiyoomi greeted as he kicked his slippers off.

“Nope.”

“Reason?”

“Producer said my voice wasn’t what they’re looking for.” Atsumu groaned.

“But your voice is good. Excellent even.” Kiyoomi replied, wobbling his way back to the table where at least six more bottles of liquor stood.

Atsumu looked appalled by the sudden compliment. I too, was shocked. Seems like Mr. Kiyoomi was hammered enough to give Atsumu Miya, the man he despised, a genuine compliment.

“How about you? Why are you drinking?”

“My demo didn’t get chosen.” Sakusa replied, slumping on the table as he played with a bottle.

“It’s okay, at least you can still pay rent. I’m nearly broke, and the gigs aren’t coming like it used to.”

Sakusa’s eyes glimmered under the hanging lamp’s light as it slowly drifted towards Atsumu, “I thought you were under a talent management agency.”

“I am.”

Sakusa rumbled and let out a few incomprehensible sounds, “Then why aren’t they giving you gigs?”

Atsumu’s brown lenses found themselves staring at the table, the corners of his lips sinking further by the second, “My contract’s ending soon.” He said glumly as he chugged a bottle.

Sakusa offered no reply, it wasn’t like he didn’t want to, more like he couldn’t. The man had passed out on the table.

A few minutes more, after a couple of chugs and ranting, Atsumu kicked the bucket as well. Leaving Shoyo confused as to why the two people who nearly killed each other in the morn were wasted as they sat across each other.

Don’t look at me, I couldn’t brief him as to what happened.

Shoyo sighed as he indulged himself with the Chinese takeout he bought— chow mein and pork cutlets, “I wanted to show you guys something, but I guess it can wait for tomorrow.” He mumbled with his mouth full as he placed a poster in the table.

I leaned in to see its contents, ultimately nodding and agreeing with Shoyo. This would be something that would help them lift their spirits.

But I’m tired, so I’ll just continue tomorrow. _Ciao!_


	3. The (Forced ?) Agreement

Kotaro looked good even when he was sleep deprived.

Hi there.

I had woken up to the sound of the front door creaking open, a stubbly, worn-out, yet raggedly handsome Kotaro Bokuto walking in. He still donned his white uniform, though it had the distinct burgundy stain of dried blood. I gasped dramatically as I encircled my arms on his waist to inspect the stain. Yes, I had to embrace him! How else would I inspect the stain properly?

His pupils dilated in shock for a second as he saw the bizarre spectacle in the kitchen table, his three roommates were thoroughly hammered, heads planted on folded arms, bottles of liquor in disarray, and the faint sound of snoring that came from the raven’s parted lips.

Welcome to adulthood. A time in your life where you relieve your distress about monetary affairs with—surprise—spending what’s left of your money for a temporary solution, which may turn into an addiction. _Yay!_

Kotaro flicked his wrists upward, his digital watch lighting up to display the date and time.

“Oh, it’s Saturday.” He says it more like a realization. His mind must have been whacked by the stresses of medical school that he forgot the date today.

From the unflattering trio of the batshit drunks, Shoyo stirred awake, his head slowly lifting from his folded arms like a crane lifting a heavy weight. His neck creaked left and right before extending one of his arms, toppling a bottle as his head tilted back sideways.

Kotaro ruffled his hair, “Go to your bed Shoyo. You’re going to have a stiff neck at that rate.”

Shoyo groaned and fluttered his lids open, “Oh, you just got home?” He asked.

Kotaro nodded, “18-hour shift.”

Shoyo chuckled as he planted both palms at the table, attempting to stand. “Welcome to adulthood. Wait till you do it with a shitty pay.”

Kotaro scoffs, “I don’t even get paid.”

“Story of your life.” Shoyo quips as he zombie-walks towards his bedroom door. “Good morning by the way,” he says before disappearing inside.

Kotaro chuckles, “Good morning,” he replies as he collapsed on my couch (at least I claimed it to be mine), his lids crashing down as he fell asleep.

The whole house was silent, save for mister Sakusa Kiyoomi’s faint snoring. It wasn’t really snoring; it was more of a soft purr. But whatever sound he made was enough to stir his archnemesis-turned-temporary-drinking-buddy-but-I-don’t-know-enough-to-make-sure-they-aren’t-going-to-kill-each-other, Atsumu awake. The blonde woke up with a series of jolts, like a jump-starting car engine—the one that belched a whole lot of smoke before working right. He blinked twice before his eyes widened as if someone had stabbed him, then his cheeks inflated like a pufferfish as he scampered to the sink, toppling some bottles on the way, and let out his bodily, mental, and emotional frustrations in the form of stomach acid and unprocessed ethanol. 

The bottles clinked into each other like a broken xylophone before it hit the table with a thud, spilling what was left of the contents to the peacefully snoring bundle of curls and mild-OCD.

As Atsumu Miya did his best impressions of a metal rock singer, belting out acidic _BRUWAAAAGH, WREEEGH,_ and _UUUURGH’s,_ Sakusa came to be, wiped off the alcohol in his cheeks, tucked some of his wet curls behind his ear as he stared into the coffee maker, probably thinking about having a cup for a hangover cure.

Atsumu’s metal concert had mellowed down to soft moans and groans as he let the faucet eradicate the remnants of his unbecoming. 

“Wash it with soap.” Sakusa droned as he hobbled towards the coffee maker.

“Make some for me.” Atsumu said in between gasps, the sclera of his eyes was filled with tendrils of capillaries, a drop of drool hung on the corner of his lips, completing his shitfaced dumb ass look.

Stop glaring at me, I’m just telling the truth. There was no other way to say it.

The coffee machine silently hummed as it slowly converted water into a dark caffeine fuelled concoction. I heard the distinct sound of leather squeaking against skin and I floated to the couch to see that Kotaro had woken up, his middle-parted hair now looked like a vast mountain range of charcoal and silver.

“You guys up?” Kotaro groaned as he stood.

Atsumu was busy pumping dishwashing liquid to the sink, Sakusa spared him a humming noise as a response.

“You guys drank a lot, and together at that. Are you okay?”

Two pairs of eyes stared at Kotaro with disbelief. Kotaro returned the incredulous look as if saying: _What?_

Atsumu and Sakusa turned to look at each other, and as if their minds had finally resumed working to full capacity, they broke their staring contest with a scoff. Sakusa pushed the fresh cup of coffee towards Atsumu with a finger, as if the contents inside were made of something unmentionable. Atsumu begrudgingly took the cup, spilling some of its contents on his hand. He fought the urge to scream by biting on his lower lip.

Kotaro shook his head over their display of pettiness. I wished I could pour the coffee over their heads. “I’m gonna catch more Z’s in my bedroom. Try not to kill each other.” 

Kotaro disappeared to his bedroom and I repressed my urge to follow him, my eyes remained glued to the awkward spectacle which were Sakusa Kiyoomi and Atsumu Miya.

The two looked like they were standing on a tightrope as they drank their morning coffee, merely a meter apart from each other. Sakusa’s brows were furrowed, his convenient hand planted on his tailbone. Atsumu on the other hand, held the cup as if it was a bowl of soup, smelling it like incense before taking a sip.

Atsumu made the first move, “Is your back still hurting?”

My jaw dropped to the floor; Sakusa nearly choked on his coffee. None of us expected that opening question. Most of the time their morning greetings would consist of glares, screaming, a sarcastic riposte to an argument, more glares, a bit of eye rolling… You know, the kind of things you do to people you don’t like.

Sakusa stammered, “Y-yeah. How do you know?”

Atsumu shot a brow, “How do I know?”

“Yeah. I never told anyone.” Sakusa said, taking a deep breath.

“You always march outside your bedroom with your hands planted on your back,” Atsumu pointed out, “You also do that every time you stand for too long.”

My shock made its way to Mr. Sakusa Kiyoomi, who stared wide-eyed at the blonde. I, on the other hand was interested on how the unlikely conversation was about to unfold.

Two prideful individuals? One suddenly breaking character without him noticing? 

_ Honey, _ this is recipe for a good drama. 

“I do?”

Atsumu gave him an incredulous look and started walking towards his room, “Wait there.”

Sakusa obliged, his foot remaining rooted on the ground as Atsumu went inside his bedroom. A few seconds later he materialized with a packet of what seemed like pain-relieving patches. He walked towards the living room and beckoned Sakusa to follow.

The flustered Sakusa marched to the living room, confused. I floated towards the vacant ottoman and observed.

“Sit.” Atsumu commanded, patting on the space beside him.

Sakusa hesitated, but eventually sat down, “What’s that for?”

“Pain relieving patches? I don’t know Sakusa, maybe it’s for curing cough.” He said as he rolled his eyes.

Kiyoomi chuckled, “Should I turn around?” He asked before realizing, “Of course I should. It’s my back that’s hurting.”

_ Ah, to be young. _

Atsumu shook his head as he smiled; I repressed the urge to scream.

I may have just witnessed imaginary sparks floating from these two _hunka-hunkas._ Don’t you just love it when two ~~bastards ­ ­­­~~ oblivious people cross the line from enemies to potential love interests in a blip? 

“Take off your shirt.” Atsumu said as he pulled Sakusa’s shirt upwards by the hem.

Sakusa followed the initiative and raised both of his arms.

“Oh my.” Atsumu gasped.

I couldn’t blame him. ‘ _Oh my’_ was the right reaction in this situation.

Etched on Sakusa’s spine, tattooed in black ink, was a dragon, its body slithering across the length of his vertebrae, scaling the mounds of muscle like mountains the creature was meant to pass through, its head coiled to the right against the flat surface of his shoulder blade like a pirate’s hook; Its eyes held the same steely stare as his; Its razor-sharp teeth was brandished like knives as it snarled, from it came columns of dark flame that scorched through his ribs.

“I got it back when I was in college. Thought it was cool.” He casually said.

Atsumu gulped, “So where do you want me to put the patches? In the tail? Somewhere in the head?” Atsumu asked as he unwrapped the packet.

Sakusa’s shoulders rumbled with laughter. A door creaked open, a half-asleep Shoyo emerging from the hallway.

“Just somewhere in the tail. In the shoulder blades as well,” He instructed, “Good morning Shoyo.”

The tangerine head finally took notice of the half-naked Sakusa and Atsumu sitting on the couch, his eyes widening in surprise. “Good morning,” he croaked before wagging a finger on both of them, “What are you guys doing?”

Atsumu plastered the first patch, Sakusa groaning in what seemed like pleasure (?) Wasn’t sure, was busy looking at the hunched mounds in his abdomen. “Patching up my sixty-year-old back.” Sakusa replied.

Shoyo nodded and marched to the kitchen and returned with the pamphlet and a cup of coffee. He took the ottoman next to me and sipped. “I have something to show you guys.”

Atsumu was on his third patch, his fingers smoothening out the folds as Sakusa let out another soft groan, “That feels cool…” 

Atsumu turned to Shoyo as he prepared the last patch, “What is it?”

Shoyo held out the pamphlet for them to see. Sakusa turned to read its contents aloud.

“Andy Studios are looking for fresh music…” Sakusa placed a finger at the words as he continued, “Cash prize… A live performance in television…” He peeked at Shoyo through the paper, “This is good!” He exclaimed.

“You should join! It’s a really good opportunity.” Shoyo said, nodding in satisfaction.

Sakusa pushed the paper out of the way and shook his head, “I can’t. All my singer friends have gigs. Even if I produced a track, who would sing it?”

Atsumu plastered the last patch, “And I’m weeks away from being jobless. I doubt the management would let me join something like this.”

Shoyo and I gave them an incredulous look.

_ Dumbasses. _

“Ever thought of working together?” Shoyo asked, “Atsumu can sing, Sakusa can produce. It’s a no-brainer. You two should do this together!” He explained, even doing hand gestures that suggested pretty common themes like friendship, cooperation, and kindness.

Their answer was a resounding: _No!_

The peaceful and amiable air that surrounded them died quickly as both were back to exuding their bloodlust. 

We’re back to our regularly scheduled program folks.

Shoyo remained in his seat and finished his coffee in peace (Or at least what was left of it). While Sakusa and Atsumu marched off to their bedrooms as they bickered.

“Me, work with him?” Sakusa scoffed, “I’d rather die before producing a song for a prideful brat.”

_ You’re one to talk. _

Of course, Atsumu didn’t let that one slide, “Look at him acting all mighty for someone who didn’t get their demo chosen.”

“At least I’m not the one who’s going to get kicked out of their agency.” 

Atsumu put a hand over his chest, “At least I got into one. Freelancer!”

“What’s so wrong about freelancing? Pretentious prick!”

“Germophobe!”

“Dirtbag!”

“Bastard!”

“Shitface!”

Kotaro’s voice bellowed from his room, “Shut up!”

“You shut up!” The two chorused as they slammed their doors in unison.

I rolled my eyes and sat beside Shoyo, who wore an expression of regret, “What have I done…”

I shook my head, _what have you done indeed._

_ \-- _

Shoyo knew how to spend his weekends well. He was sprawled in the couch, hair oily from not showering. Bowls of cheese puffs were on the coffee table with a pitcher of orange juice, Pitch Perfect playing in the television. A carefree professor watching a movie about a group of horny college women singing pop songs as they slowly trudged their way to adulthood? Sounds lovely to me.

As Anna Kendrick contemplated on which guy she liked more, the radio jockey who looked like an absolute dick, or the awkward hot nerd, Kotaro’s bedroom door opened.

“What was the ruckus earlier about?” He said, his voice gravelly.

Shoyo shoved a fistful of cheese puffs into his mouth as he pointed to the pamphlet on the coffee table.

“What about that one?” He asked as he picked up the paper, me scooting aside as he sat on the ottoman. “Oh, I see.” Kotaro nodded, “You asked them to work together, didn’t you?”

“Isn’t it the rational thing to do?” 

“It is.” Kotaro agreed, “But their prides won’t let them realize that. But don’t worry too much, things will fall into place eventually.”

Shoyo looked at him with curiosity, “You have a plan?”

Kotaro chuckled, “No. I just know. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

Shoyo’s brows furrowed even further, “I don’t get you.”

Kotaro shook his head as he grabbed the extra bowl of puffs, “You don’t have to. Let’s watch, the riff-off is about to start.”

\--

Kotaro’s mouth was prophetic and conniving. It would be too simple to tell you that they finally agreed to work together, so I’ll indulge you with the juicy details.

The Atsumu-Kiyoomi war waged on for a few more days. The two men did everything in their disposal to either: 1.) Avoid each other; or 2.) Get to each other’s nerves. It was like watching the world’s most excruciating and scream-filled performance of cha-cha. Cha-cha-1-2-scream-cha-cha-1-2-ignore—the whole act was frustrating to witness If I should say the least.

On the second day of their feud however, things started to change. The catalyst? Kotaro Bokuto. 

The medical student had just gotten home from yet another 18-hour shift when he witnessed one of Atsumu and Sakusa’s war games, the I’ll-only-go-out-when-the-other-person-wasn’t-around game. He endured about half a day of doors creaking and slamming shut simultaneously till he couldn’t. Turning off the television—which disappointed me, I was watching my favorite show—Kotaro marched to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich and stared at the posted pamphlet on the refrigerator.

“Oh, would you look at this!” He said a bit too loud, “The registration deadline for that music contest is—” he gasped dramatically, “—two days away? Man… I wonder if those two found someone to work with when Atsumu is BROKE and Sakusa is too STINGY to hire someone?”

I snickered as shuffling sounds erupted from Sakusa’s room, a curse or two from Atsumu’s.

With that provocation, Kotaro marched back to the living room, sandwich in hand as he scrolled about in his phone. I, on the other hand, drifted through Sakusa’s room.

I found Mr. Curly Tops staring at his passbook again, but this time he was mumbling something along the lines of “Me? Work with him? Never!” Then he paused as if to contemplate, his stubborn expression melting away to desperate, “But I do need the money…”

I shook my head as I sauntered through the room next door, to which I found Mr. Piss hair—wait for it—cleaning.

Yes, Atsumu Miya was cleaning his room. Shocked? I am too. His brows were furrowed intensely he looked like that red bird from that slingshot game. His hands were busy sweeping the floor, picking up trash and forcefully chucking them in a trash bag. I wish my coping mechanism for anger was this.

“Stupid Kotaro… Does he think working with that egotistic prick is easy?”

_Talk about the lack of introspection, right?_

If I was able to do as much as talk with these two? I would’ve shown them a mirror. Maybe they’ll manage to see how alike they are.

He kicked a crumpled paper, the trash rolling a few inches on the floor, groaned, and fished his wallet. The poor leather sack didn’t even have enough money to order a large-size pizza.

I heard the front door creak open along with Shoyo’s and Kotaro’s muffled voices talking outside. Having taken my fill with the desperate cries of Atsumu and Kiyoomi, I ventured to the kitchen where I found the two conversing.

Shoyo’s long-sleeved work attire was folded to his shoulders as he chopped carrots, “Are they still fighting?”

Kotaro held the knife like he was going to give the potato a surgery, “Yep. But they’ll make up soon enough.”

Shoyo wanted to press on, but he just shook his head and continued chopping, “Do you think they’ll eat together this dinner?”

Kotaro chuckled, “They’ll end up stabbing each other with a fork before they could take a bite.”

“I found them chummy together though, Atsumu even put some relief patches over Sakusa’s back.”

Kotaro raised a brow, “They did?”

Shoyo nodded, “I was surprised as well.”

Kotaro placed the peeled potato on the water-filled bowl, “That’s some interesting development. Maybe this will finally make them somehow cordial with each other.”

“If it works…” Shoyo said.

Kotaro smirked, “Oh, it will.”

\--

Shoyo and Kotaro partook dinner with just the two of them. They downed two plates of curry, washed the dishes and headed to their bedrooms with a “Good night,” as they prepared for another working day tomorrow.

Sakusa and Atsumu? They had plans—plans that coincided with one another whether they liked it or not.

Sakusa was the first to resurface from his resting chambers, his hair was damp, tendrils of black curtained a good one third of his face as he made his way to the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of soft cotton trousers, revealing his sculpted abs to both mortal and paranormal beings. He helped himself to what was left of Shoyo’s cooking and was about to take his first bite when Atsumu’s door opened, revealing the blonde who sported a tank top and boxer shorts.

For some reason, I suddenly felt ravenous.

“Hungry?” Sakusa asked, lifting his plate gently.

Atsumu looked like he was contemplating on either delivering a snarky response or agree, “Yep.” He managed to say.

Sakusa passed him a plate and a spoon and they ate in silence.

“Hey.” They said in unison, before they were taken aback with their sudden sync.

Atsumu cleared his throat, “You go first.”

Sakusa blinked, pleasantly surprised by Atsumu conceding, “Want to work together for that competition?” He managed to say without stuttering, though his ears were starting to turn bright red. Was it repressed fury or shame? I will never know.

Atsumu gave him an incredulous stare, as if saying _Is this guy for real?_

“Kotaro is kind of right. I don’t really want to spend that much money to hire a singer. Plus, you also need the money, right?” Sakusa said, his lips skewed to the right.

Atsumu twisted his fork restlessly, his brows furrowed in concentration before it relaxed as he sighed, “Yeah. But It would be really good if we won though.”

Don’t tell Atsumu that I told you he was clenching his fist under the table.

“We can work on that,” Sakusa said with a smile.

Atsumu chuckled as he ate a potato, “Big words for someone who got his demo rejected.”

“Shut up you broke singer,” Sakusa countered with a laugh, “You need me more than I need you.”

Atsumu stuck a tongue out before the two broke down in laughter.

I rolled my eyes as I retreated to the comforts of my couch.


	4. The (Gig) Pinch Hitter

I would like to ask you a question: What do you need to make a song?

If you answered tune, you would be right! If you answered, ‘Well miss J, I think you’ll need people,’ you’ll also be right. But the best answer would be the lyrics, right? How are you going to sing a song without lyrics?

So, now that you know what you need to make a song, what do you do next?

_ Write it Miss J! _

Great answer my own subconscious… You write it! You write words, a poem, a sonnet if you’re a romantic, do an acrostic if you want some spice… Write about how your experiences broke you down, on how you still held on with resilience amidst the adversaries as you belt out: _This is my life!_

Or at least that’s how I think it goes. Unlike these so-called musicians.

“How about this? Baby, _nahigugma ko kanimo…”_ Atsumu sang in a self-made tone that was a note off from being a banshee’s scream.

Sakusa shoulders spasmed as he crumpled the fifth music sheet; I somersaulted in frustration. 

“That’s the fifth time you tried to use that phrase. Why don’t you just stick to one language? Surely ‘Baby, I’m falling for you,’ is more pleasing to the ears than the Bisaya counterpart?” Sakusa said as he took yet another coupon bond. 

The living room didn’t look so ‘liveable’ with all the trash lying around: a sea of crumpled paper shifted restlessly with Atsumu’s shuffling to which he claimed ‘helped him focus’; cans of beer were arranged like bowling pins I was pretty sure Atsumu would bowl them out with a piece of crumpled paper should he realize; and orange powder riddled the rest of the table as if a cheese puff fairy came along and spread cheesy pixie dust all around.

I was honestly surprised as to why Mr. Clean Freak hadn’t blown a fuse yet over the mess, but I guess people sometimes break character when they’re so immersed in their works.

Sakusa leaned back to the couch, the leather squeaking against his exposed forearms, thanks to his black tank top. His legs were folded, serving a makeshift table as he scribbled furiously. Atsumu on the other hand was obviously intoxicated from booze intake, his tie-dyed crop topped shirt was a sleeve away from being a tubed bra. The other sleeve had long given up with his weird dancing which reminded me of frogs being electrocuted.

After a few more minutes of frog dancing, Atsumu came up with his umpteenth pitch for the lyrics.

“Hey omi-omi,” He said in a giggly tone as he wobbled, “How about this…” He cleared his throat before he sung: 

“Omi-omi with his jet-black hair

Tiny little tentacles that swing here and there

_ Atsumu! Clean this and that! _

Omi-omi spat

Poor little Tsum-tsum wailed and cried

_ Please Omi-omi, torment me no more! _

But Omi-omi just cackled

_ Shut up and clean, good for nothing prick!” _

If this helps you, the one in italics? Just imagine a drunk Kermit the frog singing while drunk.

Atsumu’s face kissed the floor in record time with Omi’s satisfying _thwack!_ as the back of his hand found the blonde’s nape. Kiyoomi was contemplating on getting a stomp in, considering how both of his legs tightened as it shook with his anger.

The blonde recovered with a ball of paper in his mouth, which he shot at Omi’s face who deflected it with a swat. Sakusa was about to deliver a second round of faceplanting to Atsumu when the front door opened, their listless housemates walking in like embalmed corpses.

“What’s with you guys?” Sakusa couldn’t help but ask. 

Shoyo looked like he just finished a triathlon; His forehead was beaded with pearls (not beads) of sweat, his tie was slung in a weird angle on his shoulder, the first two buttons of his sleeved shirt undone. Kotaro looked chipper than Shoyo, but his mountainous hair was no more as it drooped down across his forehead like the hem of a ghost’s skirt—the one you see in Asian horror movies.

Kotaro heaved a sigh which was followed by Shoyo’s as they marched towards their bedrooms.

Atsumu’s crop top took its last stand, the last attached sleeve finally coming off as the fabric slid down his body like the world’s most enticing game of ring toss—in my eyes at least.

“What was that about?” Atsumu asked.

Sakusa shrugged, “I have no idea,” He said as he gave Atsumu a once over, “Your clothes just dropped on the floor.”

Atsumu was about to pick his shirt when his phone rang. “Excuse me.” 

Sakusa went back to writing… whatever he was writing (I couldn’t make sense of what he’d written). A couple of minutes accumulated before Atsumu finally returned, a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

“What’s gotten you all cheerful?” Sakusa asked.

Atsumu’s chest swelled with arrogance, “I just got booked.”

Sakusa shot a brow, “For what?”

“Aran, a friend of mine, has a band who’s performing tonight at the Town Square. But their main vocalist came down with a sore throat, so he asked me to cover for him. With pay of course.”

Sakusa cleared his throat, “I’m pretty sure you’re being called as a pinch hitter, not being booked.” I nodded in agreement.

Atsumu didn’t like us showering over his parade as he dismissed Omi with a hand, “Tomatoes, tomatoes. It’s the same thing. There’s still money involved. Get dressed Omi.”

“Why?” Sakusa asked.

“Cause you’re coming with me of course!”

Sakusa’s brows were furrowed as he stared at Atsumu, “Why?”

Atsumu’s shoulders dropped as he swung his arms weakly; He looked like one of those inflatable statues outside car dealerships, “Come on Omi… It’s been a whole day of us inside the house and we have not a single stanza written. We need some fresh air—A new inspiration, as one may say.” 

I was pretty sure Atsumu made up the last part. Sakusa sighed and stared at the ceiling, contemplating for a good five seconds before his eyes flickered to the expectant Atsumu and groaned. 

“Fine.”

Atsumu clapped his hands as he rushed to his bedroom with a smile, “Get dressed in ten!” He yelled as he shut the door behind him.

Sakusa rolled his eyes and trudged towards his bedroom. Knowing Atsumu, he’ll probably waste the first nine minutes thinking of what to wear and spend the last one minute to fish the most unflattering outfit for a performance. Trust me, I’ve seen this scenario unfold before my eyes way too many times.

I sat still at the sofa, hunched over Sakusa’s abandoned paper. 

Nope. Still couldn’t read it. Bummer.

\--

Sakusa looked like someone who listened to Linkin Park non-stop and ate cigarettes for nutrition. Okay, maybe I overexaggerated with the comparison. He looked good with his black tank top, a huge ‘Sup’ printed over it in white ink, the letters all wavy and ghostlike. Patches of white skin peeked through his ripped denim; His sneakers hit the ground with a jingle, thanks to the arc of chains that dangled on the right side of his waist.

The disastrous one among the pair who took an extra ten minutes to get dressed wore the most obnoxious set of clothes for someone who was going to perform in front of a crowd. His outfit of choice? A plain white tee, shorts that cuffed his thighs an inch above his knee and rubber shoes—the reddest rubber shoes he could find. 

The man looked like a horrible modern adaptation of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz I couldn’t resist craning my neck around to see if a hurricane would sweep us off our feet and transport us elsewhere. Instead, I found the glimmering stars offered by the night sky slowly being swallowed by the white roof above us. The smell of freshly cooked pizza, barbeque, and fried chicken wafted in the buzzing air of Times Square. 

The pavement we walked on—I mean I hovered on—Atsumu and Sakusa marched beside each other, was sandwiched between rows of shops and cafes, all filled with people enjoying their precious free time. A blender whirred restlessly from a stall we passed through; baskets of fruits displayed at their front. One shop looked like it was pulled out straight from a children’s coloring book, it’s outside consisting primarily of reds, blues, and yellows. 

The roofing ended a few meters on, the night sky immediately taking place as we walked around a circular road. A ten feet tall Christmas tree stood from the center where balls made of bent wood hung. A few steps away, the sounds of merrymaking could be heard along the faint strums of an untuned guitar.

“How many bands are performing tonight? The hall seems cramped.” Sakusa says with a grimace, as his eyes panned the surroundings.

Atsumu fumbled with his phone, “Aran says there are three. Let’s go backstage, they’re waiting.”

Sakusa nodded as he gestured for Atsumu to step forward, a task which the latter did sloppily. I was certain Atsumu was going to kiss the concrete if it hadn’t been for Sakusa who swiftly broke his fall with a hasty grasp on the arm accompanied with a strong pull, Atsumu’s face finding Sakusa’s abdomen which was still hard, but not as abrasive as the concrete below.

“Are you sure you’re in the condition to perform?” Sakusa asked.

Atsumu massaged his nose as he recovered, “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes, “Whatever you say.” He replied as he started walking towards one of the stalls, “I’ll enjoy myself here, you go sing your heart out up there. Text me or call if you want to go home… Or not.”

“Sure.” The blonde responded as he walked to the direction of the stage, scratching his beet-red nape.

I followed Atsumu, hovering through tables of teenagers and adults high in ecstasy as they chugged golden-brown bottles of liquor. The blonde made his way through the crowd smoothly, easing his body between the small spaces till he reached the stage where he was greeted by a copper-skinned man. 

“Aran!” Atsumu greeted with a wave.

Aran’s white short-sleeved shirt filled with muscles as he flexed his arm to return the gesture. His baggy tea-green shorts hung loose with its assortment of pockets; his leather sandals clapped against the pavement as he approached Atsumu for a brotherly hug.

“Bro! _Kumusta naman!_ _Dugay naman ka way pakita!_ ”

Atsumu smiled as he broke the embrace, “Im good,” he says as he puts both hands into his pockets, “Just busy… doing stuffs,” He manages to add without his voice cracking.

_ Geez. _ Simply by being asked why he hasn’t shown himself for so long, Atsumu Miya managed to push himself into a downwards spiral. 

Aran seemed to notice the apprehension in his voice, “We have a few minutes before we go to stage,” he says as he slinged his arm over Atsumu’s shoulders, “Let’s warm up. We have at least two sets of songs to sing for tonight.”

Atsumu disappeared inside a makeshift tent made of plastic and I decided not to follow him inside. Instead, I retraced my ghostly steps to look for Sakusa.

I found Sakusa in a barbeque stall, munching off thinly sliced meat off a stick as he nodded to the man sitting across him. 

_ Ah, there he goes again.  _

Sakusa Kiyoomi flirting lessons 101: Look like you don’t give a shit, but at the same time strip the person in front of you using nothing but your eyes. Sounds difficult? It is, considering you’re not a 6’4 music producer who’s devastatingly handsome like Mr. Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

The guy flirts with his men like how he does his chores: meticulous, efficient, and seamless. His eyes will hold yours in a stare that only Sakusa Kiyoomi can give, the kind that tells you what he wants but impassable to your own advances. He takes control, he has the reigns, and resisting would be an impossible feat only a few can achieve.

The man Sakusa was conversing with is not capable of such miracles. As a matter of fact, this might be one of his easy catches. His unkempt black hair cut vertically on his right eye that he looked like a pirate. His cheeks were flushed but I was pretty sure it wasn’t because of the liquor, no—It was mainly because of Sakusa.

“So… Kuroo, was it? Why are you alone? Seems unfair that a man like you is drinking without company.” Kiyoomi said as he swirled the bottle of mixed vodka in his hands.

The man—Kuroo, chuckled bashfully as he took a swig of the liquor. Gods, this is cringey to watch. “I’m assuming a man like you has company. That blonde who’s walking on the stage at the moment?” Kuroo said as he pointed his bottle towards Atsumu who was fiddling with the microphone while talking with Aran who was busy with his electric guitar.

The sounds of acoustics and percussion echoed across the halls as the band started preparing. “Him?” Sakusa frowned, “He’s just one of my housemates. No malice in our relationship whatsoever.” He shrugged.

Kuroo nodded, but his face tells me he’s far from convinced, “Yeah, I’m surprised Kita isn’t around as well. Did the band change members?”

Sakusa’s brows furrowed, “You know this band?”

Kuroo chuckled, “That’s why I’m here. I’m always present in their gigs.”

I felt Sakusa’s flirting energy die a little as he leaned back, “So,” he takes a swig, “which one of them do you like?”

Kuroo gave Sakusa an incredulous look, “Do I have to like someone to keep going to their gigs?”

The corner of Sakusa’s mouth rose smugly, “Why so defensive? I was just asking.” He goads, shrugging his shoulders to assume an air of nonchalance.

Kuroo and I both shook our heads,” It’s… the blonde one with the glasses.” He answers.

Sakusa and I squinted to see through the dancing lights. The person Kuroo described stood on the side of the stage, his black-rimmed glasses refracting light, making it hard for viewers to see his golden eyes; The man was tall, arms taut but not overwhelmed with muscle, seeing how his green dinosaur shirt was loose at the cuffs; His slender legs were twin towers of denim, not to mention the expression he held was more disinterested than default Sakusa.

Teenagers nowadays have it so hard that they don’t develop emotions at all. Half kidding, half true. It’s a good thing I died earlier. I wouldn’t have survived a timeline like this. Nearly a hundred pesos for a fried chicken and a cup of rice? Blasphemy!

Feedback noise silenced the jolly ramblings of the people, directing their attention to the man bathed with white light, Atsumu Miya.

Atsumu held the microphone with both hands, “Hello… he-he.” He greets with a smile akin to a constipated person’s expression. I heard someone chuckle in the crowd.

“Will he be fine?” Kuroo asked.

Sakusa had his eyes glued to the stage, “Honestly? I don’t know.”

_Neither do I._

“I’m Atsumu by the way. Maybe you’re wondering why I’m the one here instead of the Beat’s vocalist, Kita Shinsuke… That makes two of us.”

The crowd laughed with Atsumu’s joke which seemed to lift the pressure in his shoulders. “Anyways, I don’t want to interrupt your drinking with my singing, but you don’t really have much of a choice, right?” Atsumu jested, earning more laughs from the audience.

“For our first song… we have…” Atsumu’s pupils darted around as his brows furrowed. From behind him, Aran chuckled as he leaned in and mouthed something to Atsumu who then smiled and nodded.

“Settle back as we serenade you with Maroon 5’s She Will be Loved,” He managed.

The spotlight dims as various neon rays of purple, green, and yellow started dancing around. The musicians started playing the prelude; The drums, guitar, and bass harmoniously approaching a crescendo. A sliver of yellow slashes through Atsumu’s face just as he opened his eyes, his brown eyes turning gold for a fraction of a second. Though he stood far from where we are, his stare shot across the crowd into the only person he knew from the crowd.

Sakusa returned the stare; Atsumu took a deep breath.

Then he started singing.


	5. What's in a Song?

Have you ever threaded a needle in one go? Perhaps experienced a morning where your entire body is in homeostasis, ready to seize the day? Ever aced a test? That elated feeling you get, that fleeting blissful ecstasy? That’s Atsumu Miya’s singing.

His voice, smooth as honey, reverberated across the hall. My heart, though it was centuries asleep, twinged to Atsumu’s harmony. His voice was soothing, relaxing like a sunrise on a beachfront mansion, yet his presence was strong, magnetic, demanding the viewers to look at him, and him alone. The blonde exuded sex appeal everywhere like a whole barrel of perfume was thrown across the stage. People screamed as he hit each note seamlessly, the band’s mastery in their own instruments making the entire performance impeccable.

In a span of ten minutes, Atsumu Miya held hundreds of people’s attention in a chokehold. He made the stage, the band, and the audience _his._

I was so into the performance I didn’t notice it had ended until the deafening applause of the audience rang into my ears along with their screaming as they demanded for an encore.

I turned to Sakusa but all I saw was his retreating figure. From across his seat, Kuroo was earnestly clapping his hands, oblivious that his companion had long left.

“Thanks a lot everyone! I’d love to sing another song for you guys, but I’m already starving, and I don’t like my barbeque cold. I hope you forgive me.” Atsumu said through the microphone. A collective ‘Aww’ came from the audience.

Aran patted Atsumu’s back as he leaned to the microphone, “You don’t wanna see Atsumu sing while hungry everyone.” He jested as he dragged Atsumu off the stage.

Kuroo stood from his chair and started walking to the stage, I followed.

Atsumu’s effect on the audience lingered longer than intoxication from booze. As we passed through tables all I heard was Atsumu’s name coupled with words of admiration and er… extreme admiration? The one that stuck in my head was ‘I want him to sing my name as I…’ My mind automatically shut down as I flew a bit faster.

We found the band on the side of the stage; Aran was immersed in conversation with a middle-aged man who seemed to be the owner of the entire facility. Atsumu and Kei sat on a round table with platters of food along with the drummer who I noticed was the shortest of the bunch. His long hair was cropped by the shoulders, his locks an hombre of black and blonde, his cat-like eyes darted around the table, no doubt contemplating on which one to eat first.

“Kenma, just start eating please.” Kei said as he grabbed a stick of barbeque.

Atsumu had long started eating, stuffing his mouth with a spoonful of rice topped with _sisig_ , his hot plate sizzling as the smell of minced meat, lemons, and egg wafted in the air.

Kenma finally decided to settle with the fried chicken, taking a bite off a drumstick before he spoke, “You sing pretty well, Atsumu.”

Kei nodded in agreement before he noticed Kuroo who was standing awkwardly from a distance, “Oh babe, you’re here. Come, sit.” He beckons the man to the seat beside him, “Did you eat already?”

Kuroo scratched the back of his head and offered a small smile as he sat between Kei and Atsumu. “Yeah, I already ate. You guys did really well today,” he said.

Kei wrapped his arm across Kuroo’s shoulder as he placed the stick, now devoid of meat, in front of him, “This is my boyfriend, Kuroo.” He introduces as he looked at Atsumu who nodded, his filled cheeks wobbling as he gave a thumbs up.

Kenma, who sat across the table pointed a drumstick at Kuroo, “We told you to sit at the tent, why were you sitting so far?”

Atsumu didn’t seem to mind that Kei was now resting his head on Kuroo’s shoulder. Instead, he pointed at the whole plate of fried chicken Kenma was eating and asked for a piece, holding a finger up. Kenma got the signal and put a whole drumstick in his plate.

“I’m not a band member…” Kuroo answered. His shoulders jolted as Kei fished his hand from under the table, folding it towards his chest, “I’m pretty sure they won’t mind babe.”

I felt like someone dropped a brick in my chest as I watched the couple publicly display their affection… Then I looked at Atsumu and the loneliness washes away, being replaced by curiosity and disgust. The man ate with such gusto I wondered if I was watching The Discovery Channel.

“You looked like you were talking with someone, who was that?” Kenma asked as he slurped the meat off the chicken wing clean, dropping the bones on the tin bucket beside him with a clang.

Kuroo looked at Atsumu who was halfway finished with a bottle of soda, “That was Atsumu’s roommate, Sakusa I believe?”

Kei and Kenma turned towards the dumbest blonde of the three. Atsumu held out a finger as he gulped the last drop of the carbonated drink.

“So, you were the one with Sakusa? Where is he now?”

Kuroo frowned, “I don’t know, he was gone by the time your performance was finished.”

Atsumu scowled as he groaned, but instead ended up belching a huge burp, “Excuse me…” He said with a chuckle, “That clean freak, I brought him here so that we can unwind from all that lyric writing and now he leaves me alone?” Atsumu scoffed, simultaneously releasing another burp.

Aran materialized on the remaining vacant seat on the table, “You’re planning on writing a song?” He asked as he took a seat and helped himself with the food (or what remained of it), “By the way, the organizers really loved the performance guys, thanks for the hard work. They gave us two buckets of drinks for free.”

Kei raised his barbeque stick in cheers while Kenma hooted as he licked a wishbone clean. Atsumu’s eyes sparkled from the thought of free alcohol.

I groaned inwardly. Atsumu already drank before we arrived here, another bottle and he’ll be too reckless to be left unattended in public. Just where was Sakusa?

\--

_Smack._

Sakusa groaned as Atsumu’s slap hit his cheek for the umpteenth time, “Atsumu, can you please walk straight?” He said, brows furrowed as he tried to bring Atsumu back to his feet again. The blonde sagged like a wet sack or rice on Sakusa’s side, arms slipping off the raven’s shoulders who tried his best not to let go.

“Omi… You’re bad.” Atsumu sobbed. His whole face looking like the ripest of tomatoes as he wobbled himself to stand, then failed.

Atsumu’s body swung in an arc like a door shutting close into Sakusa’s own person. His legs looking like bent straws as he hooked himself on Sakusa’s neck, trying his hardest to stand upright. But as if the floor was doused with motor oil, his rubbered soles slipped with every attempt that he looked like he was doing the treadmill.

Sakusa’s tilted his head back as he groaned.

_That’s what you get for disappearing._

If you’re asking, ‘Hey miss J, what happened earlier? Why is Atsumu batshit drunk? Where did Sakusa go?’

I honestly can’t answer your question, well… maybe I can. What happened earlier? Atsumu drank. A. LOT. Question number 2? Refer to previous answer. Where did Sakusa go? I don’t know, but he did call Atsumu in the middle of his drunken stupor and managed to bring him to our current location, which is merely a street away from home.

“Come on Atsumu…” Sakusa said, his tone begging, but the blonde lied still, motionless save for the rise and fall of his chest.

Sakusa ran his fingers through Atsumu’s unkempt hair, trailing down to his ears where he planted his palms on to hold it in place as he crouched. “You are such a mess.” He said with a chuckle as he rested Atsumu’s head on his shoulder and pulled his body close to his. Atsumu’s knees hit the ground for a second before Sakusa hooked his hands behind the blonde’s thighs and brought himself to stand, the latter now huddled in his torso like a baby—a big, drunk, and obnoxiously dressed baby.

Atsumu, who was lost in dreamland, looped his arms around Sakusa’s neck and nuzzled his face in between Sakusa’s neck and clavicle, “You’re bad, Omi…”

Sakusa chuckled as he began walking, “Are you still cursing me in your dreams you little prick?”

Atsumu groaned in protest, “You left just as I finished singing…” He droned, his voice gradually lowering down to a whisper I had to hover close—too close that I smelled the horrid stench of alcohol, “Bad…Omi…” He trailed off.

“I had to buy something,” Sakusa explained, though I doubt Atsumu was still listening, “But you sang well, Atsumu. Incredible, even.”

The blonde was silent.

A few more minutes of walking and we finally reached home. I zipped through the walls to see if anyone was still awake, but I didn’t find a single soul on the living room except… well, me.

The front door clicked and Sakusa marched in with Atsumu still clinging on him like a monkey. Moonbeams sifted through the windows and the gaps, providing Sakusa with the illumination he needed to maneuver to the couch, where he laid Atsumu down. The two of them elicited a groan as their bodies separated, Sakusa automatically jerking his arms and stretching his back. Atsumu expertly grabbed one of the throw pillows and embraced it as he assumed a fetal position.

Sakusa marched towards the kitchen, hands planted on his back. The sound of water running sung softly in the silence of the night. A minute later, Sakusa came back with a glass of water, his face dripping wet. He placed the drink on the coffee table and sat on the ottoman across Atsumu.

He sat there in silence, as if waiting for something to happen. Then, the blonde tossed to the right, dropping himself to the cold floor with a thud. Sakusa shook his head as Atsumu groaned in the floor, now fully awake.

“Hey… Are we home?” He asked casually as he sat back on the couch, his head lolling upwards.

“Yep.”

Atsumu pinched the bridge of his nose as he looked at Sakusa, “Where were you?”

“I just bought something.”

Atsumu shot a brow, “Like what?”

“A pen.”

“For what?”

Sakusa held both of his arms forward, palms facing up. The moonlight illuminating the writings in his forearms.

“You got yourself a tattoo?” Atsumu asked.

Sakusa rolled his eyes as he stood up to turn the living room lights on, making Atsumu squint. He took the space besides Atsumu and showed his forearms once more.

“What are these words…” Atsumu trailed off as he traced the writings on Sakusa’s arm as if he was reading braille, “These are… lyrics?”

Sakusa nodded, “It’s incomplete, but I managed to write at least a stanza or two.”

Atsumu brought Sakusa’s arm closer to his eyes, “I can’t read most of it…”

“I’ll have to type it in my laptop tomorrow. My handwriting is shit. You should sleep as well, it’s not good for your beautiful voice to be awake this late at night.”

Atsumu’s eyes widened as if someone had struck him with lightning. “You heard me sing?”

Sakusa covered his mouth with his convenient hand to stifle a yawn, “Yeah. You’re incredibly talented. Actually, I managed to write the lyrics since I was sort of inspired with your singing.”

Atsumu’s face flushed a deeper shade of red, “I’ll go to sleep now.” He uttered before he threw Sakusa’s arm back and made a run for his room, slamming it shut when he reached inside.

Lines formed in Sakusa’s forehead as it scrunched, “What’s up with him?”

I rolled my eyes and lied down on the couch. _Men_.


	6. Unfold

“Is he still locking himself in his room?” Shoyo asked as he took a sip of his morning coffee, already dressed for work.

Atsumu scratched the back of his head and glanced at Sakusa’s closed door, “Yeah. He’s been there for a day and a half already, and he hasn’t showered since.”

Shocked? I am too. Mr. Sakusa Kiyoomi, the clean freak, hasn’t taken a shower for almost two days? Maybe the world IS ending.

Shoyo looked at the wall clock and finished his coffee in three gulps, “I need to go. Please make sure he at least eats breakfast.” He stood up, grabbed his case and ran to the front door, “See you guys in a while.”

“I will. _Amping,_ Shoyo,” Atsumu said with a wave.

“Thanks, you two be safe as well. No murders.” Shoyo said as he shut the front door behind him.

I hovered to the seat across Atsumu and observed his face. The man was obviously perplexed. It had been like this for as long as Sakusa started his self-isolation. I couldn’t blame him, the simplest task like delivering food to a roommate can be quite encumbering when said roommate is exhibiting behaviors akin to a psychopath.

With a sigh, Atsumu started his task, assembling a cup of rice and a platter of fried bacon and eggs on a tray. He even went the extra mile and prepared a cup of coffee, continuously muttering something incoherent and huffing air, like he was about to participate in Masterchef. The tray trembled in his hand as he marched to Sakusa’s bedroom that even I was forced to gulp astral spit, anxiously hoping that the coffee wont tip over the rice; Coffee porridge sounds horrible to eat.

“Sakusa? Can you open the door please?” 

No answer.

Atsumu huffed, “Come on! Shoyo asked me to bring you this. He’s going to kill me if I don’t do this.” He half-lied. Shoyo was too dear of a person to kill someone.

The distinct sound of paper being torn was heard inside the door, followed by Sakusa’s recognizable grunt as footsteps thundered from the inside. Atsumu gulped spit as the distinct _click_ of the door being unlocked reached his ears. The door swung open, a… worn-out—no—hobo version of—still no.

Let’s just say he looked worn out. His curls no longer glistened with oil; It looked like someone had chopped off stalagmites from a cave and glued it on his head. The bags under his eyes rivalled that of a panda—at least pandas looked cute, nothing was cute about his scowling face. His sweater, which he wore for who knows how long, had come undone by his left shoulder, pale skin peeking through. 

“What is it?” He growled.

Atsumu gave him a once-over, “Have you looked at yourself in a mirror?” He said as he made his way inside, which also reflected the current state of its owner. Crumpled paper was littered all over the floor. The bed was no exemption, its sheets were unfolded and one of the pillows was an inch away from the laundry chute. I was uncertain if it had fallen, or if it was a failed attempt at throwing it inside the chute.

The only places that were ‘presentable’ was Sakusa’s study table, his laptop humming softly as an array of wires snaked around, one connected to a small box with a couple of glowing buttons, another on his propped electric keyboard and his guitar.

Atsumu looked around before he turned to Sakusa, “Where should I put this?”

Sakusa scratched the back of his head, “Just put it in the kitchen table, I’ll eat it there.”

Atsumu shook his head, “Not falling for that one again. You’re eating this in front of me.”

Sakusa raised a brow, “I promise I’ll eat it outside, but can you please get out of my room?”

Atsumu’s feet remained rooted on the ground, “No. You get out.”

Sakusa’s head tilted to the side as he gave Atsumu a look of disbelief, “Excuse me?”

“Look at yourself Sakusa. You haven’t showered in two days! Your room looks like shit, and you smell like shit. These words should be a lot for you, considering you’re the cleanest one among us.” Atsumu said without breaking eye-contact.

Sakusa tried to refute, but all that came out of his mouth were incomprehensible sounds. I nodded in agreement. 

“Go take a shower Sakusa.” Atsumu said in an appeasing tone. Sakusa obliged with no resistance, took his towel, and marched to the bathroom. Atsumu went back to the kitchen to place the tray to the table and returned with a trash bag, broom, and a dustpan.

The sound of flowing water echoed from inside the bathroom as Atsumu started sweeping, occasionally unfurling a crumpled paper to try and make sense of the writings before throwing it in the bag. He was in his tenth unfolding when his eyes piqued with interest as he scanned the contents of the paper.

I floated above Atsumu to make sense of the writings, but Sakusa-glyphs were still hard for me to understand. Atsumu seemed to have comprehended every word and symbol as he sat on the stool fronting the keyboard. He stretched his fingers excitingly before he pressed on a key, the instrument responding to his touch as it produced a note. 

“We know we ain’t perfect…” He sang as his fingers danced across the monochrome keys, the instrument following his melody, “It’s not hard to see…”

Atsumu leaned to the paper, trying to make sense of the next set of notes and lyrics, but his slowing fingers told me that he failed to comprehend the writings. Nevertheless, he looked satisfied with what Sakusa had made, a smile plastered in his face as he folded the paper neatly and put it in his pocket as he finished cleaning, tying the trash bag close as he walked out.

I peeked at Sakusa’s still lit laptop and found an assortment of bars arranged in columns and rows, each varying in length and color. I tilted my head, trying to make sense of the weird mosaic of rectangles but nothing came to me, so I just took a seat at his still unmade bed while I waited for Atsumu to return.

No, I did not want to peek at Sakusa while he was bathing.

The blonde came back a minute later and went straight to the bed to arrange it, the linen sheets passing through me as he straightened the sheets and placed the pillows back on the headboard. The room was now clean.

He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through the sheets, admiring his work. I was so proud of him cleaning that I clapped my hands even though no sound came.

Sakusa emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, and for the nth time of in years, I thanked the divinities for blessing me with such _good_ tenants. His eyes widened as he saw his room’s improved state.

“You cleaned my room?” Sakusa asked.

Atsumu grinned smugly, chin tilted up as he crossed his arms, “Yep.”

Sakusa smiled as he dried his feet on the mat, “Thank you, Atsumu,” He said as he ruffled blonde locks with his damp hands. He turned his back towards Atsumu as he crouched to open his clothes drawer, his dragon staring at both of us accusingly. At least that’s what I thought (Mostly because I was ogling at the sight of sculpted muscles).

Sakusa straightened up, a fresh set of folded clothes on his hand, “I heard you play the keys,” He said as he placed a gray sweater and track pants beside Atsumu, then proceeded to slide his underwear up his legs.

I resisted the urge to peek, the effort of doing so made my whole being tremble. How was Atsumu acting so nonchala--. 

_ Well, well, well… What do we have here? _

Mr. Atsumu Miya, ears beet red? Neck so flushed he looks like he’s having an allergic reaction? _Eskandalo._

The sound of garter slapping on skin made Atsumu and me flinch, “Did Bokuto come home today?” Sakusa asked.

Atsumu had his eyes glued to the floor as he answered, “Nope.”

Sakusa fished his track pants and proceeded to wear it, “His schedule must be hectic. You think he still got time for Akaashi?”

Atsumu’s shoulders relaxed as Sakusa unwrapped his lower half, hanging the towel on a hanger before he donned the sweater, “I’m sure Kotaro finds a way,” Atsumu replied as he leaned back on propped arms.

A small smile appeared on Sakusa’s lips, “Yeah. They’ve been going strong for almost ten years now.”

“Surely they’ll get married by the time Kotaro becomes a doctor.” Atsumu said hopefully.

Sakusa ruffled his hair once more, “That’s up to Kotaro and Keiji,” he said with a chuckle, “Join me for breakfast?”

Atsumu growled at the gesture, “I already took mine.”

Sakusa was already by the door, “Then just join me, surely you don’t have anything better to do than sit on my bed.”

Atsumu placed a hand over his right pocket, his expression thoughtful. He then pulled the paper out of his pocket as he followed Sakusa who was already at the kitchen, “Sakusa! I want to propose something to you.”

I also joined them of course, as if I had anything better to do (see what I did there?).

Sakusa was munching on a piece of bacon, his cup of rice now only half-full as he consumed a spoonful of rice. Atsumu sat across him and unfolded the paper.

“Where did you find that?” Sakusa asked before realization dawned upon him, “Oh, back when you were cleaning my room.”

Atsumu nodded in agreement, his eyes beaming with enthusiasm, “I really like the lyrics and melody of this one,” He said as he pushed the paper towards Sakusa.

Sakusa picked the paper up and inspected the content, “So, what were you going to propose?” He asked.

Atsumu fidgeted with his fingers as he bit his lower lip, “Can I…” his eyes darted to the ceiling, the wall clock, the dead roach in the foot of the cabinet, then at Sakusa, “Can I participate with the lyric writing?”

Sakusa’s neck jerked backwards as his expression turned to that of confusion, “Why?”

“Because I like the song, and we’re in this together, right? So, it’s normal for me to help in any way that I can.” Atsumu answered.

Sakusa shook his head, “I don’t know Atsumu, it’s hard having two lyricists writing a single song.”

Atsumu frowned as he returned Sakusa’s question, “Why?”

“It’s just unconventional.” 

“It doesn’t mean it won’t work.” Atsumu said, his voice raised.

“Listen, I’m not saying that it won’t work. But songs are easier to write when only one person is working on it. You’re being unreasonable.” Sakusa retaliated.

Atsumu’s face crumpled to a scowl, “No, YOU’RE being unreasonable. I just want to help!”

Sakusa planted both palms on the table forcefully, making the dishes tremble, “You’ll help me better if you do as I say Atsumu!” he yelled, “This is exactly why I had doubts on working with you. Can’t you just follow my instructions?! God! This is exactly why your contract is coming to an indefinite end! You’re a pain in the ass to work with!”

Both of their breaths syncopated in their own rage. Atsumu’s eyes glistened with moisture, his fists clenching as he locked stares with Sakusa whose damp curls curtained his forehead, slashing diagonally on his eyes to reveal shrivelled pupils. The air around us went heavy with tension.

“I was just trying Sakusa,” Atsumu choked out, his voice cracked. His expression softened as he stood up and headed for the door. I followed and saw how his shoulder trembled as he shed fresh tears.

_ What have you done, Sakusa. _

The front door creaked open and I looked back, hoping to see Sakusa following Atsumu, to make amends. But alas, the man never moved from where he sat.

I had to admit that Atsumu is a bit hard to get along with, but Sakusa had no reason to lash out like that to someone who’s trying so hard to help, considering that this competition was supposed to be a team effort. 

A strong gust of wind greeted us as we reached outside, shaking palm sized umbrella tree leaves off their branches, making Atsumu’s dramatic march more picturesque with the foliage confetti. 

Mayhap he was too engrossed in crying, or he just wasn’t looking, but I couldn’t fathom how he could miss someone as big as Bokuto. 

Atsumu’s head found Kotaro’s torso, who unlike him, was looking at where he was walking.

Kotaro took a big bite off the meat bun he had been eating and glowered at Atsumu, “Why are you crying?” 

_ Oh no. _

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be containing dialogues from the Bisaya language, but worry not, I'll do my best so that non-speakers can understand.


End file.
